


Requiem Confutatis

by Sharkaiju



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood and Injury, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Humiliation, Misogyny, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharkaiju/pseuds/Sharkaiju
Summary: Count Olaf once tried to sexually assault Beatrice; she goes after him for her revenge, but it doesn't go as planned. Olaf/Beatrice. WARNINGS: Graphic depiction of rape, violence, misogynistic slurs/language, Olaf is evil
Relationships: Beatrice Baudelaire/Count Olaf
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based more off the netflix series than the books overall, but this Olaf leans more towards book-Olaf. I was a little loose with certain canon details to make this run more smoothly. I may add one more chapter of the aftermath of this, if I decide my idea for the aftermath isn't too horrible (pregnancy/alluding that Sunny is Olaf's child).

The night was cool and still; upon the darkening lawn, a tall, thin man in black could be seen scaling a stone wall, descending with a muffled swear and a stumble onto the manicured grass. Between his black trousers and his scuffed, pointy shoes, on a patch of pale skin, the tattoo of an eye was visible, even in the cloak of semi-darkness; he straightened up to his considerable height, his nose cutting a beakish profile against the evening sky, his shining eyes fixing on the mansion some hundred yards from where he stood. A man with a title yet no last name, a man known only as Count Olaf.

He had been sent by the equally mysterious and practically nameless group known as the "Volunteer Fire Department" (and many other names, each one more absurd than the last and always bearing the same initials, VFD); in recent years, his affair with the VFD had cooled, but his superiors had insisted that he was just the man for _this_ job. Truth be told, he'd ever been on the best of terms with the VFD, however much his side of the schism grudgingly appreciated his fire-starting skills. They thought Olaf to be too unstable, too unpredictable; he found them to be too strict, too unimaginative, too focused on money and power to understand a man's more simple dreams of complete and utter destruction of his enemies.

Still, he was not so foolish as they believed him to be. Olaf was clever enough to know that it would behoove him to stay in the VFD's good graces, at least for the foreseeable future, and repressing his resentment for them had not been as impossible as the Man With a Beard But No Hair and the Woman With Hair But No Beard might have thought. He was an actor, after all.

Although the real challenge had been pretending to give a damn about this 'mission'. Olaf had only been half-listening when they were reeling it off to him; he picked up that he was supposed to lift some sort of sheet music from these rich jerks, something to do with Mozart's unfinished Requiem, blah blah blah. Why the VFD would want an ancient - and unfinished, at that - piece of sheet music was beyond him; something to do with codes, or something. The details of these forays always bored him; for Olaf the fun was getting into character, actually executing the plan. It was like a play for him; this was where he excelled.

That's not why he accepted the mission, however. No, he had a special interest in this mission, a _personal_ interest. There were plenty of double-agents amongst the Volunteers, on both sides of the schism; listening in on the right conversations and putting pressure on the right places had led him to find out that the Firefighting Side wanted the document as well. This would have been of little consequence to Olaf, had he not also found out which agent they were sending to do the job.

Beatrice Baudelaire.

That was the only real reason he'd even agreed to take the mission: for a chance at Beatrice. The way he saw it, the evening could go one of two ways: either he would successfully filch the document before Beatrice could even get there, and - being sure to leave some clue that it was he had bested her - she would feel the humiliation of defeat at her old enemy's hand again. Or, perhaps he would arrive _after_ Beatrice, and catch her by surprise on her way out... And oh, she wouldn't be able to flit away on her false wings this time, oh no. As for what he'd do to her if (when?) he caught her, well... His mind had been churning with the most wicked and hateful of thoughts.

He slunk across the soft lawn, pausing briefly halfway to consult a crude hand-drawn map so that he might find the appropriate window. These mansions always looked the same to him; rich folk never had any taste. At least they made up for it with lucrative baubles of gold and jewel he could purloin and later pawn for cold hard cash, soon to be spent on red wine, cocaine, and hookers. He figured if nothing else, besides relishing the satisfaction of Beatrice's humiliation, he would help himself to a few valuables as well.

But he really hoped she _would_ be there. That held a satisfaction even money couldn't buy. Oh, what he'd do to her, if only given the chance... But best to save those thoughts for the moment, should it come. He needed concentration, now.

Slinking beneath the wide windows he found the appropriate room. Ground floor - that was a relief. If she was here, he didn't want her pulling one of her sneaky little tricks like she did at the masquerade. Harder for the little bird to fly from the ground. That would even the playingfield a bit.

Cagily Olaf lifted his head and chanced a peek in. The room was well-lit, a fire burning in the hearth, though the room seemed to be emtpy. He felt a slight twinge of disappointment, as if he'd expected to look in and see Beatrice there. He wondered if she'd already come and gone. It sounded like her, always such the picture of a woman in complete control, in complete possession of herself. Oh, how he'd love to ruin that perfect in-control facade she always had... But he was getting carried away again. He supposed the best way to see if she'd beat him to the punch or not, was to see if the sheet music was still present. Then he would plan from there.

Olaf tried the window; unlocked. He smirked to himself; these rich sods were too easy. One would have thought they would have taken more precautions, if this sheet music was really as important as the VFD had made it sound. He slid the window open, flattening his slim body as much as he could, slithering through the space between the sill and window frame and onto the wooden floor. The room was hot from the fire, and the scent of some perfume hung in the air, hinting that guests had been here not long ago; but now all was still and quiet, the only sound the gentle cracking of the logs in the fireplace.

Quickly, Olaf saw a wooden stand across the room, some sort of modified music stand with a huge glass bell jar over it. He could see aged-looking papers beneath the glass; would they really be so stupid as to just leave these supposedly precious papers under such poor security? Apparently they were - upon closer inspection, he could see the scratchy quill-and-ink writing upon the aged parchment, and even the composer's own signature on the corner, ' _W.A. Mozart_ '.

Beatrice hadn't been here yet, then. His cock grew half hard in the confines of his trousers at the thought, but he remained in control of himself. Best to secure the document first; but after that, he no longer wished to dash off into the night while leaving only some "love, Olaf" note behind to humiliate Beatrice. No, that idea no longer seemed satisfactory. The firelight flashed wickedly over his sharp features as he thought about what he would do when she arrived, when he saw her again. He licked his thin lips in hungry expectation.

Snapping back to reality, Olaf started to remove the glass bell; but then remembered the instructions his Bosses had drilled into his head: _wear gloves, don't touch it_ _with your filthy hands, remove the papers and place them in this protective folder,_ blah blah blah. He rolled his eyes, pulling some black leather gloves from his back pocket. Suddenly he realized he had left the folder in the car. Oh, well, if TMWABBNH and TWWHBNB didn't like it, too fucking bad. They ought to be grateful he even got the bloody thing for them in the first place; it looked so ancient that it might turn to dust in his hand anyway, protective folder or not.

As he was fiddling with the too-tight black gloves, Olaf had no idea he was being watched. You see, he was mistaken in thinking that he had arrived before his rival, for behind him, well concealed inside an ornate armoir, was Beatrice Baudelaire.

Beatrice had arrived some time before, anticipating Olaf's arrival - double-agents were as likely to help one side of the schism as the other, and she had her own ways of making the cowards talk. She had arrived early, leaving the coded music sheet in plain view, knowing that Olaf would take the bait. She had waited for his arrival for so long that she had wondered if he was coming at all, but her patience had finally paid off: he was here, late as always. 

As she watched him from an impercievable crack in the armoir door, it occurred to her that she had not seen or spoken to him in over a decade. It was an odd realization, because, though she had sworn many times through the years that she never wanted to see him again, when she had been offered this assignment, she had jumped at it. She thought that TMWABBNH and TWWHBNB had known that she would; and though she knew she was being subtly manipulated, given the circumstances she chose not to care. 

For there was something else that she had sworn all those years, and that was that, if ever she did see Olaf again, she would kill him.

This was her opportunity to rid the world of Count Olaf once and for all.

Of course, killing Olaf for "the good of the world" was not her only motivation. In fact, if she was honest, that was not really her motivation at all. No, her motivation was revenge, a fact which Beatrice had pushed to the back of her mind until now - though seeing this man, whom she so despised, was making it harder for her to pretend that her motivation was for the greater good. It was also making it harder for her to care that her motivations were perhaps less than noble.

_'Think of all the innocent people he's hurt, that he's killed,'_ she told herself. _'It doesn't matter what your motivation is. The end justifies_ the means.'

Seeing him again was more of shock than she had expected. His appearance hadn't changed much - he was a bit greyer, a bit balder, but otherwise he looked much the same, still the distinctive unibrow and the strong profile. She could see much of his body; he had forgone his usual theatrical clothing for the plain black "cat burglar" disguise that came with the standard VFD disguise kit. She might have mocked him had she not been wearing the same disguise.

No, it was not the way he looked that disturbed Beatrice, but rather seeing him at all - it brought back ugly memories, memories from her past that she had done her best to try to bury in the years that had passed. They had resurfaced briefly that fateful night at the opera - the actual last time she had seen him, though that was not what she saw in her mind when she thought of _the last time_ \- but she had been able to shove them back down into the depths of her psyche, then. And anytime they had tried to surface again, she had strangled them and crushed them, refusing to give them any more quarter in her mind than the brief, black thought of _'someday, somehow,_ _I will have my revenge.'_

But it was, in fact, those very memories that had prompted her eagerness to take the assignment in the first place. It was not something she was proud to admit - she still considered herself noble - but here she was nonetheless, her hand pressed to the hilt of the knife sheathed at her side holster, with murder on her mind. _Murder._ The word sounded heavy in her mind, like stone, as if the thought itself held weight.

_'Think of what he's done,'_ she told herself again; and, briefly allowing the memory to resurface, she thought, _'Think of what he's done to -you-."_

That silenced the feeble cry of conscience in her. Truthfully, though, when she had thought of how this incident would play out, she had pictured it differently. She had pictured capturing Olaf by surprise, subduing him, taunting him, making him squirm in terror just the way he had done to her. Now, seeing him - even unaware as he was that she was watching - her nerve faltered.

But she was not to be so easily undone. She had waited too long for her revenge. Now, looking at him, she forced herself to look upon that hideous memory she had kept so long buried. In her mind's eye, she forced herself to focus on every vile detail. _'If_ _I remember that,'_ she thought, ' _if I see_ _it as if it were now, as_ _if it were superimposed over the man standing there, it won't feel like murder. It'll feel like putting_ _a rabid dog down.'_

That's what Olaf was like: like a sick, slavering rabid wolf; the thought sent a chill up and down her spine, and she silently cursed him for the psychological hold he apparently still had over her.

_'Don't see it with fear,'_ she told herself. _'See_ _it with anger. See it with hatred. See what you did wrong and correct it. See how you're going to make him pay.'_ She let the memory rise in her mind and overtake her senses for a moment, boiling it alive in the acid if her hatred.

It wasn't a pretty memory. What made it worse was how ashamed Beatrice was of her own behaviour that night. They were both barely older than children then, teenagers that thought they were grown. Maybe that had been her downfall - her pride. It stabbed her with guilt and shame even now, remembering the day a week or so before the incident; it had been after a sparring session, and her instructor had asked her to stay behind with several other female Volunteers, to "show them how it was done". That had bolstered her ego, being chosen in front of everyone as the obvious favourite, and it swelled even more when she saw that Olaf, having just finished some training session of his own, was watching.

She pretended not to notice him, though she was sure that he knew; he, too, was sticking to the shadows, feigning indifference, but she was not fooled by his act either. The fact that he was pretending nonchalance spurred her to more confidence, because she knew he was really watching her every move with thinly veiled jealousy; and as she began demonstrating to the other volunteers the moves that they had practiced that day, she imagined that her invisible opponent was none other than Olaf. She caught his eye - she knew by the daggers he was glaring at her that he knew what she was thinking, and when she finished the demonstration, she couldn’t help but give a verbal description as well, all the while making eye contact with Olaf. "I could cut an attacker's throat as he tried to grab me," she'd gone on, "or pretend to come on to him and instead stick a knife in his femoral artery. I would kill him before he even knew what was happening - I would kill him 10 times before he hit the ground."

The sour look on Olaf's face had thrilled her; perhaps it was that that had made her arrogant, had made her sloppy. Perhaps it was the fact that she refused to admit to herself that she was afraid of Olaf - or maybe she didn't even know that herself. Not yet anyway.

It was her tendency to to daydream that had proved Beatrice's downfall. First when she indulged in her fantasies of beating him, humiliating him, destroying him; and now, perhaps a week after that event, when she had stolen away to the VFD's theatre, on an off night. It was silly, and she knew it, but she couldn't resist stealing away to the empty theatre - as much as she loved acting and singing, she never felt as comfortable as she pretended to when on stage. It was only when she played to an empty audience, like this, that she felt she could really be herself, could really be free.

She was dressed in a gauzy, shimmering dragonfly costume, though the wings of this one were simply for decoration rather than function; but Beatrice felt beautiful as she spun in graceful loops, the thin fabric of her skirt flowing out around her hips, her ersatz wings glistening in the stage lights, the only lights she had turned on in the whole of the threatre. She felt light as air, free, unearthly, and as she spun around to the delight of her imaginary audience, she forgot all about the VFD, all about the heartaches of the world, all about Olaf.

That had been her undoing.

After some time - she had lost herself in it, she could not be sure how long it had been - she stopped her dancing, breathless, her hairline beaded with sweat, her heart high and still lost in her fantasy. In her mind she could imagine her adoring audience: the thundering applause, the standing ovations, the roses thrown at her graceful feet. She felt a bit silly, but, thinking she was alone, she gave herself over to fantastic abandon, performing a flourishing curtsy, even murmuring out loud, "Thank you, thank you - you're too kind!"

She was whisking off stage right when she suddenly realized she was not alone. There had been no indication, no change in mood or tone, or at least none that she had noticed, even for all her training. No, she had been so lost in her daydreaming that she had not noticed this other person until she nearly ran into him - but the minute she noticed his presence, she knew immediately who he was.

"Olaf!"

How long had he been there? The idea disturbed her more than she liked to admit. The idea of that smarmy letch ogling her from the dark, without her knowledge, without her consent...

She figured he had come to laugh at her. To mock her, to ridicule her performance, to tease her for her childishness. But he didn't say a word. Instead, before she could even react beyond gasping his name, he brought his cupped right hand up with cat-like quickness and slapped her in the face, as hard as he could.

The slap was an even bigger shock than finding him standing there, and, unlike the invasion of her privacy, this triggered not outrage in her, nor even pain, but a mind-numbing shock. The blow was so powerful that it knocked Beatrice right off her feet; in her surprise, she had no time to recover, and fell gracelessly onto her side, crushing the gauze wings beneath her body, sliding on the polished boards into the wall.

The pain did not seem to hit for several seconds; instead there was an overwhelming feeling of dizziness, a dulling of sound and light and sense of direction; Beatrice felt almost as if she was under water, but the waves that crashed over her were of nausea and vertigo. It wasn't until she felt rough hands grabbing at her, pulling her up and back into reality, that the truth of the situation began to don on her.

Those were _Olaf's_ hands. _Olaf_ had watched her. _Olaf_ had slapped her. _Olaf_ was holding her in his vile grasp _now._

Beatrice's eyes rolled in her skull, finally fixing on him as she returned to her senses. Her left cheek was on fire; she could feel it with all the certainty of hyper-reality now, and with that same hyper-reality that she saw Olaf leering into her face, his eyes flashing wickedly beneath his wild monobrow, his stained teeth bared in a hideous parody of a grin. Beatrice wanted to say something - anything - but she was frozen, only her eyes betraying the hate in her heart.

"Why such a hateful look, Miss Beatrice?" Olaf crooned mockingly. With a sort of panicky terror, Beatrice realized he had maneuvered her against a wall; she was trapped between the wall and his body. "You'd think you'd have at least a smile for the one and only person in your audience." He had been watching her. He had been _watching her._ Beatrice felt like her skin was crawling beneath his touch. "That was a lovely performance you put on out there." He was dangerously close to her now - with a kind of horror she realized his leg had moved between her knees, and his thin lips were looming close to hers, so close that she could feel his hot breath against the tender skin. His breath was hot and stale, stinking of cheap wine, wet against her mouth like a disgusting slug.

Beatrice tried to steel her expression. She refused to let him know she was afraid. She glowered up at him with a defiant expression, but somehow she could not will her body to move; she was as still as a stone.

Olaf was not fooled; the smugness of his reptilian smile was evidence enough of that. Slowly, never breaking eye-contact with her, he moved his hand from where it was gripping her upper arm (she hadn't realized how hard he was holding her until his talons were removed from her skin, leaving throbbing indentations and pink scratch marks behind); and, in a disgusting mockery of tenderness, he pulled loose the ribbon tying back her hair, letting it fall onto her white shoulders like a sinuous brown cloud.

_'Hit him!'_ her brain screamed. _'Kick him in the balls! Stomp his foot! Kill him!'_

But she just stood there.

Olaf's fingers knotted into Beatrice's hair; she thought he would pull it, thought he would force her head down or twist her into his desired position by it, but instead he brought it slowly to his face, inhaling her scent. Somehow this was worse than if he had hurt her, his gross lampoon of tenderness; but more than she hated his lecherous touch, she hated her apparent inability to fight back. Everything in her screamed at her to fight, or even to make for escape, but she could do nothing, she could only stand there, frozen, her breath coming in fast, panicky gasps.

What was she doing? Her mind seemed to scream within the confines of her skull. Where was all her training? He wasn't prepared for a fight, he'd be no match for her. Why couldn't she seem to do something?

Olaf noticed it too; his smile was as bitter as wormwood, as sharp as a two-edged sword. "Tell me, Beatrice," he drawled, his tongue sliding disgustingly over his lips, "why is it that you're not doing all those things you promised to do to me? Didn't you tell me you would 'kill me 10 times before I hit the ground'?" His hand moved from her hair to her breast; he cupped it with deceptive gentleness, feeling the rapid swell-and-fall of her frightened breath, like an injured bird. "That little speech you made - it _was_ meant for me, wasn't it?"

He squeezed suddenly, viciously, crushing her breast in his spidery hand. Beatrice inhaled sharply, but still she could not move, could not fight, could not scream.

"Do you want to know what I think?" Olaf murmured, still crushing her breast in one hand; his other hand, which had still been squeezed into her upper arm, released her now to move to the gauzy material of her skirt. Bunching it up, he reached beneath it to cup between her legs. "I think perhaps you're not stopping me..." he whispered, grabbing at her mound, barely covered by the leotard she wore beneath the skirt, "...because you _like_ it."

Tears began to slide down Beatrice's face - big, fat tears sliding down the palm-print on her cheek - though her expression never changed from that look of defiant anger, a feeble attempt to mask her fear. She tried to focus on her hatred for _him,_ rather than the rapidly swelling hatred she felt for herself - yes, even more than she hated _him,_ she hated herself, because she could bring herself to do nothing about his ill treatment of her. She was frozen, like a frightened rabbit, like _prey._

Olaf laughed, that low awful laugh of his, and, still grabbing between her legs, he reached to undo his own trousers. Beatrice could feel the hardness of his erection against her thigh, and she knew he had every intention of going through with this - he was going to rape her, and all she could do was stand there, terrified, humiliated, unable to do anything but pathetically weep.

Even now, ten years later, Beatrice's face burned with shame at the memory; her hatred for that vile Olaf was surpassed only by her hatred for herself, that she had (almost) allowed it to happen. Truthfully, the situation had only been derailed because another volunteer, Larry Your-Waitor, had entered the room unexpectedly, apparently looking for one of them. Beatrice's only comfort had been that, given their position, and her hair covering her injured and tear-stained face, the interloper had mistook their embrace for a clandestine, but consensual, love affair. Whatever spell Olaf had put over her, it seemed suddenly broken by the interruption, and Beatrice found her mobility suddenly restored; but, and this perhaps humiliated her more than any of it, especially looking back now, was that instead of attacking him while he was distracted, she had pushed past Olaf and ran.

A week later she had transferred to another VFD station.

She had not seen Olaf again until well after she had finished training, had become a full-fledged Volunteer; indeed, not until that disatrous night at the opera, and then, only briefly. That had been another harsh black mark on her idea of herself as "noble" - for, not only had she caused the death of Olaf's father (accidentally, granted, by the poison dart aimed at Esme), but she had let Olaf believe that Lemony had done it. _Why,_ that cruel little voice in her head asked, _why didn't you tell him_ _it was you?_ It was shameful enough to think that she'd kept quiet to save her own skin, but worse was that she knew that _wasn't_ why. No - she had said nothing because, upon seeing Olaf there, she had been too frightened to speak.

She didn't feel like a sophisticated, confident singer who had delivered a powerful opera piece to an adoring audience, not when she'd seen him. She felt like a scared, insecure teenager, in a silly costume, singing to an empty audience - no, worse than that - she felt like that same teenager with those spidery claws grasping at her again. With that hot foul breath washing over her throat. With those vicious talons prodding at her sex through the meagre protection of a leotard and childish white panties.

_That_ was why she hadn't told the truth.

But now, she was filled with a different emotion. Facing the memory seemed to have steeled her. Now, the sight of Olaf didn't fill her with that frightened, frozen terror she'd felt that night in the empty theatre, that night in the posh opera house. Instead it brought a wave of hatred and disgust welling in her throat, manifesting as a deep and all-consuming need for revenge.

Beatrice's hand went to her utility belt, making a quick mental inventory of her weaponry. The plan had been to use the knife - quick, efficient, and Olaf would never see her coming. She could slip behind him and slit his throat before he even knew what had happened.

It was surely the most logical approach; but something in her was dissatisfied with it. She didn't want Olaf dead by what he believed to be some anonymous hand. No, he needed to see her face, to look her in the eye when she did it. She wanted to see his fear, his helplessness. To make him feel the way he had made _her_ feel.

No, it wouldn't do to simply cut his throat. Not a poison dart either, not even for the purpose of dramatic irony. No, she would do this in a much more personal way.

She would make him suffer.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets really raunchy. I may add one more chapter after this, about the aftermath (Beatrice getting pregnant with Olaf's illegitimate daughter Sunny) unless I decide that's just too awful, lol.

After a minute of struggling and swearing, Olaf finally managed to get the gloves on. He wondered again if he ought to go get the folder, but decided against it. He knew how to be careful when he wanted to, for god's sake. Anyway, he could spend the time it would take him to go back and return with the folder to pinch a few valuables. The room was some sort of library, but whoever owned all this hoity-toity crap had a penchant for displaying lots of expensive-looking baubles; all the shelves contained various statues, knick-knacks, clocks and such, and much of it was small enough to fit into his pockets, which was where it soon disappeared to.

After slipping several items into his pockets, Olaf noticed a small glass figurine of a dragonfly; and suddenly, unbidden, he thought of Beatrice. He had hoped to see her here tonight, of course, but the image of the dragonfly put him in mind of a specific incident. It was a recurring theme with her: she'd worn a glitzy winged costume that night she had murdered his father _('Oh, yes, you forked-tongued little bitch,_ _I_ _knew_ _it_ _was you,'_ he thought to himself, recalling the incident, _'even though you tried to let Snicket take the blame...'),_ and it was on strange gliding wings that she had escaped from him that night of the masquerade. That wasn't the incident he had in mind, though.

The corners of his mouth turned up in a cruel smile. For the memory he had in mind was that night he'd almost raped her.

It was after a sparring session she'd done with some of the other female volunteers; that hack of an instructor had cooed and fawned over her favourite student like a lovesick puppy, practically begging Beatrice to stay behind and "show the class how it was done". Please, Olaf could practically see the old girl undressing Beatrice with her eyes. Beatrice might have known it too, but she clearly wasn't above manipulating people's emotions for her own gain, however 'noble' she pretended to be.

Olaf himself had borne witness to that grotesque show; listening to Beatrice drone on and on about all the things she'd do if an attack were to happen, how deadly her hands were, her feet were, her skills were. He remembered the smugness in her expression as she kept glancing at him, cutting her eyes his way as if to say _'That's what I'd do to you, you miserable wretch.'_ As if she was seeing a shadow of her future. _'Though it didn't go the way you thought it would, did it, dear Beatrice?'_

When it was all said and done, she hadn't turned him in. It had surprised him at the time - was it her shame, or her pride that had kept her silent? Olaf was quite sure that it was not for _his_ sake - no, for all her talk of morals and her goody-goody attitude, she was no different from the rest of the VFD, from either side of the schism - entirely self-serving. She would only keep quiet because she couldn't bear for people to know what had happened - his hands on her, groping, probing, and all the while her standing there like a frightened rabbit, frozen, teary-eyed, helpless. Like a doll in his hands, completely at his mercy.

Not that it mattered - no, her reasons didn't matter, because _he_ knew, and _she_ knew - They both knew it _had happened,_ and they both knew that he had her now, that he had power over her, no matter where she ran to, no matter how many years she let pass. He controlled her _fear,_ and that meant he controlled _her._

A slight chuckle escaped him. She must still think of him too, wherever she was now. Probably not too fondly either. He smiled. He hoped that was the case. He hoped he would see her tonight. Then he would make sure she remembered - and if she did not, he would refresh her memory.

 _'Anyway,'_ he thought, _'time to focus on the task at hand.'_ Having pocketed every small valuable he could find, Olaf turned his attention back to the bell jar and the sheet music beneath it. He was just beginning to lift the glass when he heard a slight noise; he paused, holding his breath. He wondered if the owners of the house were coming back to this room. He may have wasted too much time pilfering; he decided he better get the music and get out, before things became complicated. Perhaps Beatrice was not coming at all; if she did, he decided he would be better off intercepting her outside the house. Best get the paper and go.

Olaf crouched down a little; the glass was large and cumbersome-looking, and he chose to lift it with both hands, lest he accidentally drop it and draw attention. But as he reached to lift it, there was a sudden black shadow across the glass - someone was behind him.

Olaf barely had time to duck; a second later and something crashed down where his head would have been, shattering the bell jar in a massive explosion of glass.

Panic temporarily disoriented Olaf, but survival quickly overcame it; he was caught off-guard, but he hadn't forgotten how to fight. Striking out blindly - he still had not seen his opponent - he swung his leg in a wide kick, as hard as he could, and was gratified to feel his boot connect with something firm. There was a sickening wet smack, and a heavy weight wrenched painfully against his ankle, shooting pain into his hip and sciatic nerve; but he knew his life depended on this kick, and he drove all his force into it, feeling the weight on his boot come loose, and moments later heard the thud of a body hitting the ground.

Panting, Olaf looked around, wild-eyed, searching for whatever the hell nearly hit him. A black shape lay crumpled on the floor, unmoving. Ignoring another jabbing pain in his hip, he scrambled to his feet, leaning over the body to get a better look.

He didn't recognize her right away. He could see now the body was female; the hair was dark, and seemed to have come undone from being tied up, presumably by the force of his kick. He could see a puddle of blood oozing onto the wooden floors; in the firelight, it appeared black as ink. Leaning closer, he saw a swlling, purple-red laceration on the side of the woman's face; though it was quickly distorting her features, especially in the relief and shadow of the firelight, Olaf recognized her immediately.

It was Beatrice.

A sudden thrill went through him, fighting for dominance against fear and rage. Was she dead? Had he killed her? He hoped not. Not yet, anyway.

Catching his breath, he looked around to see what she'd attacked him with. There on the floor, he saw a large carved stone statue of a horse's head, like a giant chess piece. Jesus, _that_ was her weapon of choice? Seeing it, Olaf's initial fright began to subside. Yes, she'd nearly crushed his skull with the cumbersome thing, but using a weapon like that - if one could even call it a weapon - it was sloppy, unprepared. Not the work of a good Volunteer.

It could only point to one thing: she was still afraid of him.

Deep inside him, a cold, bone-seeping hatred began to spread through his body. He flew to Beatrice's flaccid body, flinging her crumpled limbs outward. She didn't move. For a brief moment, he thought he _had_ killed her; the entire left side of her face was distorted with a grotesque and swelling bruise, and a substantial amount of blood had leaked from the corner of her mouth onto the floor. But upon closer inspection, he could see the slow rise-and-fall of her chest. She was alive, alright, albeit unconscious.

"Fucking bitch," he spat aloud. "Thought you'd do to me all those nasty things you promised back in training, did you?" Suddenly it occurred to him: he had the opportunity to finish what _he_ had started all those years ago, too.

Olaf kicked Beatrice's thighs apart with unmannerly haste, kneeling between them. His fingers felt numb, his hands shaking more than he'd like to admit; he struggled to open the utility belt over Beatrice's tight black jeans and found he could not. Typical, he thought, the whore wearing these tight ass-hugging jeans, flaunting the shapeliness of her hips, letting him see what he couldn't have. "What is this, a fucking chastity belt?" he snarled aloud, but he was glad to find his fingers still retained enough dexterity to pull the knife from her holster - things might have gone differently if dear Beatrice has chosen _that_ weapon, or if she, like most of her fellow noble volunteers, hadn't been so opposed to the use of guns. _Stupid._

Olaf palmed the knife, watching the silvery glow of light along the wickedly curved blade. How easy it would be to finish the bitch right now, a quick slit to the throat and the VFD's favourite would be no more. But no, that was too easy, too good a fate for her. He wanted her to suffer. He slid the knife beneath the thick black leather of her belt, and sliced it not-so-neatly, cutting open not only the belt but also the black denim, and, as he saw now, leaving a small slice along the unconscious Beatrice's hip as well, which quickly welled with red beads of blood.

The sight of the blood excited Olaf; he paused to examine her face again, which, in his panic, he had not taken proper stock of before. The side of her face was quite swollen, already turning black-purple with bruising, her eye in particular very swollen on her left side where his boot had struck her; there was a long gash at her temple, and blood was congealing there, as well on her swollen mouth, but he could see the pulse of blood from her headwound, the slight beating of it in her throat, like a tiny bird. She still lived. _Good,_ he thought, _I'm not through punishing her. Not yet._

Working quickly, Olaf disarmed Beatrice - as it turns out, she had plenty of weapons on her, all in the standard assigned places. Just like a good little volunteer, she had all the assigned weapons, and no extras hidden away, not like he always made a point to do. _'Look where following rules got you,'_ he thought scornfully.

Tossing the various weapons aside and out of her reach, Olaf seized the two torn pieces of Beatrice's waistband in his hands (no longer trembling, or at least not with panic now) and tore unceremoniously, ripping the fabric in a long line between Beatrice's legs; with some effort he separated the legs of the jeans from one another, so that he could see her simple, but damnably sexy, black panties, highlighting the creamy skin of her thighs, her mound only hinted at beneath the black veil of fabric. Using the knife again, he quickly cut the waistband, and tore the flimsy fabric away, revealing the neat dark fur of her mound and, peeking from beneath, the hint of pink lips.

Again, he thought back to that day back in training. He could have had her, if he wanted to. For all her training, for all her big talk, the little bitch had just stood there, just _stood there_ while he had man-handled her. Even when that bastard Larry Your-Waitor had interrupted, effectively saving her, Olaf still could have had her. Larry couldn't have stopped him, any more than Beatrice could have; Larry was held back by his morals (he'd fight him, sure, but he wouldn't kill him), and Beatrice, by her absolute terror of Olaf. She'd never admit it, but they both knew.

Well, now he would give her a reason to be terrified. Now he would make her understand consciously what she had only been able to perceive subconsciously before, what she would never let herself believe in her waking, aware mind, even though deep down she knew it to be true.

That she _should_ be afraid of him. That he was better than her. At _everything._

Olaf slapped his hand over Beatrice's quim, his long, bony finger jabbing unceremoniously inside her. She felt warm, and wet; he hadn't gotten this far the last time, though he had been able to feel the heat of her skin through the flimsy material of that absurd dragonfly costume. He inserted another finger, then a third; she was tight still, though he heard that she'd had at least one child already, maybe more; the bitch took care of herself, apparently. Still fancied herself a young and sexy femme fatale, a spy, a 'volunteer' as it were in spite of being a wife and mother. Still out here attempting assassinations while she had children at home, still thinking she could do it all. Dear Beatrice, always so ambitious. Well, she was in for a surprise.

Olaf dug his long claw-like nails into her, stabbing into the tender flesh of her insides; Beatrice moaned slightly, druggedly, but she did not regain consciousness. It angered him. Removing his fingers from her, his hand still wet from her juices, he grabbed her bruised and battered face and squeezed her jaw viciously. "Wake up, you vile slut," he snarled, squeezing her face brutally, until he felt a click and pop that apparently was her jaw resetting. "Wake up and look at me. Look at your old friend."

She was coming around, he could tell; he saw her eyelids flicker, her brows knitting as the pain began to pull her back into reality. Her left eye was badly swollen, but her right eye fluttered open, slowly, blearily; his cock gave a vengeful twitch when he saw her rolling brown eye finally focus on him, and the fear and horror and disgust register there as she realized who it was she was looking at. _"Olaf!"_ she tried to say; her jaw was badly hurt, maybe broken, but he could recognize her attempt at saying his name, and it fueled his rage and his lust even more than the sight of her pretty dark-furred pussy had.

"That's right, you numb cunt," he spat, his dank breathe hot on her face, his boney fingers - sticky with something, she didn't know yet what - crushing painfully into her bruised jaw. A flash of rage welled up in Beatrice's soul - how dare he put his hands on her? She was aware of pain, and the stink of wine and bad teeth on his breath, but the rest was hazy. How had she gotten here? She knew it had something to do with him, something to do with that _Requiem,_ something to do with a mission -

Suddenly his hand was between her legs again, and for a brief, horrible moment, she thought she was backstage again, back at the theatre, frozen and terrified as he pawed at her, in spite of all her training being rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to fight, unable to scream. She thought she must be dreaming. Olaf sniggered, his crooked, stained teeth mocking her, a huge wolfish maw that seemed to be all that she could see.

"Does this feel like a nightmare?" he said, as if reading her mind. "Because that's what I was going for." His fingers shoved inside her again, and this time he raked his vicious nails down the inner walls, so viciously that rivulets of blood leaked from her vagina. Beatrice screamed, unable to stop herself - the pain was horrible, but the horror was what brought the scream from her throat, the horror at knowing Olaf's filthy fingers inside her, touching her most intimate place. No, no, it couldn't be real. She had been ready this time. It couldn't be real.

But the hot reek of his breath sure seemed real, and the grip of his talons on her neck as he fumbled with something below his waist - what, she didn't want to think of, dared not think of - certainly felt real, and when he'd freed his erection from his trousers, when she felt the hardened tip pressing against her opening, she knew that it _was_ real - horribly, disgustingly, hideously real.

She tried to hit him; her arms felt like they were weighted with lead, her coordination still badly skewed from the headwound. She tried to scream; her throat felt thick and unresponsive. _No, not again, not like this, not -him-!!_

Olaf's fist squeezed around Beatrice's bruised jaw again, making her wince. He stared at her with his wicked black eyes, shining with cruelty beneath his arched eyebrow. "Do you know what the difference between a _slut_ and a _bitch_ is, dear Beatrice?" he growled, his lips centimetres away from hers, a cruel mockery of a kiss. "A _slut_ will do it with anyone... and a _bitch_ will do it with anyone but you." Then she felt the stiffness of his erection pressing on her, and suddenly he was pushing inside, shoving his cock inside her, invading her, _raping her._

 _'No,'_ she thought, _'no, no, this can't be happening, it can't, IT CAN'T!!!'_

There was no tenderness in his manoeuvers; Beatrice doubted a man such as Olaf was capable of tenderness, but even he seemed to be doing this less for his own selfish pleasure than out of sheer hate. She could see it in his eyes and he roughly drove into her, his considerable length shoved in all at once in one awkward and painful thrust, so quickly and with such a lack of lubrication that it surely must have even caused discomfort for him. It burned, and it hurt, and it was too much girth to take all at once, but it was not this that tore Beatrice to the very core of her soul; rather it was the fact that it was _him,_ that is was _Count Olaf,_ that she had failed once again to stop him, even having had the advantage of surprise. _Just like all those years ago._

It _did_ hurt him, actually - she wasn't wet enough, and the sudden thrust felt rough on his sensitized cock, but the pain it caused him only enraged Olaf the more, only fueled his aggression. Oh, the look on the bitch's face was priceless. Worth more than any money or jewels or gold. The look of horror, of hatred, of defeat in her big pretty eyes as she feebly attempted to fight him was enough to nearly make him come then and there. But he restrained himself - this wasn't about sex, after all, it was about _revenge._ And he intended to have his revenge, in the best possible way. Better than destroying her body, he would destroy her mind.

Olaf fisted his hands in the material of Beatrice's shirt - the same black denim as her trousers, just like a good little spy, wearing something inconspicuous, not like the over-the-top disguises he favoured. She'd always admonished him for his extravagant taste, in their younger days, though this black skin-tight denim proved a poor armour, as it turned out - he easily ripped it open without even the aid of the knife, exposing Beatrice's ample breasts beneath, bound in a pretty, lacey black bra. She had a beautiful body, even all these years later, and the fact that time and childbirth had not ruined her made him want to ruin her the more.

"You pathetic little girl," Olaf growled, pawing at Beatrice's breasts, tearing the lace of her bra. "This was all part of your plan, wasn't it? Luring me here to kill me..." His words were rough and breathy, a grotesque mockery of pillowtalk. "But you couldn't even do _that,_ could you? An arsenal of weapons, and you couldn't even pull off a simple assassination." He laughed that wicked laugh of his, all the while thrusting into her with hard, vicious strokes, his cock seeming to stab into her very belly. "Some volunteer."

Beatrice tried to scream, but found she could not open her jaw; the scream came out a mangled, animal howl. Where were the owners of the house, the party guests? Surely they would hear - Surely there were other Volunteers planted among them - Surely someone would hear, someone would come, someone would wake her from what could only be a nightmare of the most hideous stripe.

But as Olaf's cock jabbed into her abused pussy, she knew it wasn't a dream. As his awful hands pawed at her breasts, as his claws gripped her buttocks and raked marks down her white thighs, she knew no dream could be as cruel as this.

 _'The knife,'_ she thought, _'find the knife.'_ Her hands felt heavy, not her own. She fumbled without coordination, her fingers finding only the shreds of her black denim jeans, the belt gone. She had no weapon. Thrashing, she tried to claw at his eyes, but she couldn't seem to focus on where he was, and her arms fell like useless, heavy clubs.

"Hold still, you bitch!" Olaf snarled as one of Beatrice's hands deflected off him. She might hurt him, if she ever got those claws to his eyes; but bloodloss and concussion had made her slow and half-blind. He grasped both her wrists and pinned them down, his other hand digging cruelly into her hip, gaining leverage and he thrust into her.

Above the tinny smell of blood, Beatrice could smell the musky scent of Olaf's body; this perhaps was the worst of the ordeal, smelling the natural reek of him, and hearing the vile, wet squelching of him pumping into her, the slap of flesh on flesh as his thighs and balls smacked against her ass. She longed for death, hers even more than his now - if only because she couldn't imagine life after this, after being hurt by him like this, after having him on top of her like this, _inside of her_ like this. She crushed her eyes shut against burning tears, her body useless and leaden, unable to move, unable to fight.

Olaf grunted, feeling himself getting close. He wanted to prolong it, wanted to make her torture last as long as he could, but Beatrice's body felt good beneath him, around him; and finally he could hold back no longer, and with a final violent thrust, he came inside her.

Beatrice felt his cum explode hot and thick inside her belly. The sluggishness of her hody was misleading; in her mind she was screaming, screaming to the whole world and worlds beyond, her soul being consumed by horror and hatred and disgust. Vomit pressed at the back of her throat, threatening to rise, and she almost hoped it would, hoped it would smother her, or that she would bleed out inside her brain, or that the red-blackness edging around her vision would devour her sight and she would simply sink into darkness forever.

Still half-breathless, Olaf pulled put of Beatrice unceremoniously, and got to his feet. She wanted to close her eyes against the sight of him, standing there with his wilting cock hanging wet and streaked with traces of her blood, but she could not seem to look away. She met his eyes, involuntarily, and felt bitter hatred swell her throat instead of vomit now as she saw the cruel smirk there.

"I suppose we finally finished what we started all those years ago," Olaf sneered down at her. "Hope it was as good for you as it was for me." He seemed to have an afterthought; pacing away, he moved out of her line of vision for a moment, and she heard the tinkling of broken glass. Presently he reappeared, holding the yellowed parchment of the Requiem.

"Here, take it," Olaf said carelessly, letting the paper drop onto Beatrice's body, obscuring her bruised thighs and her cunt, oozing blood and cum. "I don't need it anymore." He laughed, low and mocking. "I got what -I- came for." Blackness finally edged into Beatrice's vision completely; the last thing she heard was Olaf's cruel, mocking laughter as she sank into the formless, painless void.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/kudos are appreciated ❤ My tumblr is sharkaiju <\---


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